


Sinners Play as Saints

by Bears_in_the_sky



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dumbledore's Army, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Good Death Eaters, Good Slytherins, Hogwarts, M/M, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw & Slytherin Inter-House Friendships, Ravenclaw/Slytherin Inter-House Relationships, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26664415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bears_in_the_sky/pseuds/Bears_in_the_sky
Summary: You stole my heart, now give it back.No one held a grudge like Sinclair Fontaine. She remembered every playground quarrel, every rude classmate, every time her brothers pulled her hair, and she got her revenge each and every time. No one could beat her at her own game. Revenge, pickpocketing, thievery. It was in her blood. So when Draco Malfoy spiraled down a darker and darker path, she followed to pull him back — only so she could repay her grudge, of course.
Relationships: Blaise Zabini/Original Male Character(s), Draco Malfoy/Original Female Character(s), Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	1. Sinclair Fontaine

Sinclair Fontaine never should have stolen from Draco Malfoy.

It had been easy. Oh, it had been so, so easy. But then her stupid heart had gotten in the way. Her stupid heart, that wouldn’t let her head stop thinking about it until she acted.

That damn letter.

She’d stolen from him before, like she’d stolen from many others, trinkets and knick-knacks, like a magpie lining its nest. If she was in a particularly foul mood, she’d even steal homework. She usually returned the things, after the person from whom it was stolen spent a few days looking for it. She never stole from people who would suffer from the loss, even if it was temporary, but snide, insufferable rich jerks like Draco Malfoy got under her skin and made her fingers itch.

She came from a family of criminals, from low-level petty thieves to grand scam artists. It was a family secret that threatened time and time again to come out, yet strangely never did. Or, more accurately, their secret stayed secret thanks to threats, bribes, and worse. It was the worst kept secret in Britain. Oh, sure, here and there she had some moral, upstanding relatives, but every family has its black sheep.

Her grandmother told her never to put anything in writing that could be used against her. So why was it that someone with as much to lose as Draco Malfoy would put something as sensitive as  _ that  _ in a letter where, quite frankly, anyone could steal it? She never would have stolen it if he hadn’t been rude to her during Herbology — it was his fault, really.

She could hear her grandmother now, chiding her for letting her heart get involved. Why did she have to get all bent out of shape over a few short words? She’d been born a crook, after all, and up until now she’d had no problem doing what she did best. She should’ve just returned the letter. She never should have opened it, she never should have read it, and she  _ never  _ should have told Draco Malfoy she’d done all of those things.

She’d been a damn fool to steal that letter.

Because in return, Draco Malfoy stole her heart.

And she wanted it back.


	2. The Hogwarts Express

“Had a good summer, Sinclair?”

Sinclair grinned at the pretty brunette in front of her. She was tucked into the shadows, leaning against a brick wall and watching the bustle of the crowd.

“Good enough, Tish, how about you?”

Letitia Selwyn stepped through the smoke that billowed from the scarlet steam engine, wrinkling her nose slightly at the hullabaloo. She was the picture of composure, from her hair pulled back into a neat bun to her low, two-tone heels.

“As well as can be expected, after the dreadful events of last year,” she said, her lips drawn into a neat frown.

Sinclair nodded in agreement. Cedric’s death had been hard to get over, especially for her brother Marcel, who had been close with him. She herself had shed a few tears, in private, of course, but Letitia didn’t need to know that.

“Let’s find a compartment,” said Sinclair. “I don’t want to be stuck at the end of the train.” She pulled her wand from her sleeve, pointed it at their trunks, and muttered, “ _ Mobiliarbus _ .”

The two girls made their way through the crowd and onto the train, their trunks floating a few feet off the ground behind them and forcing other students out of their way. Sinclair cut in front of a fourth year before he could claim an empty compartment in the third train carriage, grinning smugly as she levitated her and Letitia’s trunks onto the luggage rack.

“Will your friend Margaret be joining us?” asked Letitia, lounging elegantly in her seat.

“Mm, I hope so, I haven’t seen Maggie all summer,” said Sinclair. “Can’t she be your friend too? It’s been four years, Tish. What do you have against her?”

“Well, to begin with, she’s far too  _ bubbly _ ,” said Letitia, as if bubbly was an insult. “I have nothing against the two of you being friends. She and I just aren’t a good fit.”

“Don’t tell her that, she loves counting you as a friend,” said Sinclair. “She’ll wear you down someday, I guarantee.”

“We’ll see,” said Letitia with a sniff.

The compartment door slid open, but instead of Maggie’s curly red head, it was Blaise Zabini who entered.

“Hello ladies,” he drawled, shoving his trunk into the luggage rack and taking a seat beside Letitia. “Miss me?”

“Only a little,” teased Sinclair. “How was your summer?”

Blaise waved his hand dismissively.

“Boring as ever,” he said. “Mother and I went to France for a while.”

“Only you could call France boring,” said Sinclair. “I’d love to go.”

Just as the train began to move, the compartment door slid open again, and this time it was Maggie who entered, dragging her trunk and an empty basket. The cat that should have been in said basket, Simon, was draped quite happily over her shoulders.

“Hello everyone!” she said, in her delightfully thick Scottish accent. She sat in the empty seat beside Sinclair, moving Simon to her lap and tucking her wand behind her ear.

“Hi Maggie,” said Sinclair, grinning at her friend. It had taken Maggie the better part of first year to wear Sinclair down, but dammit, she had. “How was your summer?”

“Oh, it was excellent,” said Maggie. “Well, it started out not so good, because of you-know-what, but then we got to visit Gramps on the Isle of Skye and he took us to a Pride of Portree game…”

Maggie’s steady stream of chatter was enough to carry them out of London and into the countryside, where they sped past fields of cows and sheep. When she was done recounting her summer, she asked for details from each of theirs, and when she was satisfied Sinclair challenged her to a game of Exploding Snap. The cards had just exploded on Maggie’s turn — Sinclair almost never lost — when a lanky boy with scruffy brown hair stumbled into their compartment.

“Hello Ezra,” said Sinclair, shuffling the cards. “Still clumsy, I see.”

“Rude,” said Ezra O’Brien, pushing himself to his feet. “Hello to you too. I’m now seeing that the compartment is full —”

“Take my seat,” interrupted Sinclair. “I was looking for an excuse to claim the window seat anyway.”

“I was with Anthony,” said Ezra. “He and Padma are the Ravenclaw prefects.”

“Good for her,” said Sinclair. “Glad we’re well represented.” She threw a sly glance at Blaise and Letitia. “I can’t say the same for you.”

“Who’re the Slytherin prefects?” piped up Maggie.

“Pansy and Draco,” said Letitia. “Both of whom Sinclair does not like.”

“She’s a bitch and he’s a brat,” said Sinclair with a shrug. Ezra laughed.

“Here comes the trolley,” he said, craning his neck to look down the corridor.

“Is it that time already?” said Sinclair.

The trolley witch, a smiling, dimpled woman, opened the compartment and the five fifth years leapt up hungrily.

“Anything from the trolley?”

Money spent and food acquired, most of the rest of the train ride was spent pleasurably. They were visited at intervals by Daphne Greengrass and the Ravenclaw prefects, as well as Teddy Fox, who Sinclair accused of stealing when he took Ezra back with him.

“You’d know a lot about that, wouldn’t you?” teased Teddy, sticking his tongue out at her.

“How immature,” said Letitia, rolling her eyes. Sinclair flipped him off. “Sinclair! That is not very ladylike.”

“Well he deserved it,” said Sinclair, crossing her arms and reclaiming her seat. Dusk was falling when they were next interrupted, by the very person — well, one of the people; Sinclair had a lot of enemies — she did not want to see.

“Blaise, Letitia,” greeted Draco Malfoy, blatantly ignoring the two Ravenclaws.

“Come on Maggie,” muttered Sinclair. “Let’s go find Bea.”

“Going so soon, Fontaine?” sneered Draco, still standing in the doorway.

“Your hair gel is choking me, Malfoy,” retorted Sinclair. “Move or I’ll hex you.”

“I’m a prefect now,” said Draco. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?” challenged Sinclair, raising her wand. “Do you feel lucky,  _ prefect _ ?”

She looked back at Maggie, whose face was pale. Simon was back around her shoulders.

“Let’s go, Maggie,” she said quietly. “Tish, Blaise, I’ll see you at school.”

Sinclair elbowed past Draco and into the corridor. She and Maggie had both changed into their robes already, because they knew they’d be arriving at Hogwarts soon. The two girls strolled down the train in search of their friends and fellow Ravenclaws, and it didn’t take long before they found them.

“Sinclair, Maggie, there you are!”

It was Beatrice Moon; she had spotted them through the window. She was sitting with Faye Crawford, leaving only Padma Patil missing from their party.

“Padma’s out patrolling,” explained Beatrice, predicting Sinclair’s question. She had an uncanny knack for doing that. “She’ll be thrilled to see you.”

“We’re glad to find you,” said Sinclair, as she and Maggie plopped down across from the other two girls. “Malfoy, that absolute prat, showed up and I had to leave.”

“Understandable,” nodded Beatrice.

“Your auras don’t line up,” spoke up Faye, eyes closed. She opened one eye and looked at them. “Was that mystic enough?”

“Terrific,” said Sinclair.

“Oh, Faye, you’re getting better and better!” squealed Maggie.

“I wasn’t expecting to find the two of you here!” said Padma, stopping short when she entered the compartment. Her long black hair was tied in a shiny plait. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been fine,” said Sinclair. “Though I can’t tell you how glad I am to see all of you. Maggie, why don’t you tell them about your summer? Maggie had a great summer,” she explained to the other girls.

Maggie got to tell her tale a second time while Sinclair didn’t have to tell hers at all. It was a win-win. Maggie’s storytelling abilities were unmatched, and Sinclair hated talking about her personal life. The sky was dark outside, and mountains and forests were being swallowed by the gloom as they rolled passed. Soon, a voice echoed through the train.

“We will be reaching Hogwarts in five minutes’ time. Please leave your luggage on the train, as it will be taken to the school separately.”

“Finally,” said Sinclair. “I’m starving.”

The carriage ride to the school was swift, thankfully. Sinclair was the only one among them who could see the thestrals, a fact only Maggie knew. The entrance hall was ablaze with torches and echoing with footsteps as the students crossed the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.

The four long House tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in midair all along the tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly to one another, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other Houses, eyeing one another’s new haircuts and robes.

“There’s Harry Potter,” whispered Maggie in Sinclair’s ear as they sat down at the Ravenclaw table.

“So it is,” said Sinclair, her lack of interest in the Boy Who Lived evident. “What about him?”

“Do you think it’s true? What he says happened? To Cedric?”

“His death was no accident,” said Sinclair darkly. “But I don’t want to talk about it now, it’ll put a terrible damper on the feast.”

Maggie nodded, but she kept throwing suspicious looks at him all the same. Sinclair turned her eyes on the staff table, where Professor Dumbledore sat in his golden chair, wearing deep purple robes speckled with stars and a matching hat. Her interest was piqued, however, by the woman he was talking to. She was short and squat, with a toad-like face curly mousy-brown hair held back by a pink headband that matched the fluffy cardigan she wore over her — you guessed it — pink robes.

“Who’s  _ that _ ?”

“Who?” asked Beatrice.

“The pink woman, Bea, next to Dumbledore.”

Beatrice shrugged.

“Probably the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I expect,” she said.

The doors to the Great Hall opened, and in came a long line of scared looking first years. The only one Sinclair recognized was Aurora O’Brien, one of Ezra’s two younger sisters. The buzz of talk in the Great Hall faded away as Professor McGonagall placed a patched and fraying hat on a short stool. After a moment, the rip near the brim opened wide and the Sorting Hat began to sing.

_ In times of old when I was new _

_ And Hogwarts barely started _

_ The founders of our noble school _

_ Thought never to be parted: _

_ United by a common goal, _

_ They had the selfsame yearning, _

_ To make the world’s best magic school _

_ And pass along their learning. _

_ “Together we will build and teach!” _

_ The four good friends decided _

_ And never did they dream that they _

_ Might someday be divided, _

_ For were there such friends anywhere _

_ As Slytherin and Gryffndor? _

_ Unless it was the second pair _

_ Of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw? _

_ So how could it have gone so wrong? _

_ How could such friendships fail? _

_ Why, I was there and so can tell _

_ The whole sad, sorry tale. _

_ Said Slytherin, “We’ll teach just those _

_ Whose ancestry is purest.” _

_ Said Ravenclaw, “We’ll teach those whose _

_ Intelligence is surest.” _

_ Said Gryffindor, “We’ll teach all those _

_ With brave deeds to their name.” _

_ Said Hufflepuff, “I’ll teach the lot, _

_ And treat them just the same.” _

_ These differences caused little strife _

_ When first they came to light, _

_ For each of the four founders had _

_ A House in which they might _

_ Take only those they wanted, so, _

_ For instance, Slytherin _

_ Took only pure-blood wizards _

_ Of great cunning, just like him, _

_ And only those of sharpest mind _

_ Were taught by Ravenclaw _

_ While the bravest and the boldest _

_ Went to daring Gryffindor. _

_ Good Hufflepuff she took the rest, _

_ And taught them all she knew, _

_ Thus the Houses and their founders _

_ Retained friendships firm and true. _

_ So Hogwarts worked in harmony _

_ For several happy years, _

_ But then discord crept among us _

_ Feeding on our faults and fears. _

_ The Houses that, like pillars four, _

_ Had once held up our school, _

_ Now turned upon each other and, _

_ Divided, sought to rule. _

_ And for a while it seemed the school _

_ Must meet an early end, _

_ What with dueling and with fighting _

_ And the clash of friend on friend _

_ And at last there came a morning _

_ When old Slytherin departed _

_ And though the fighting then died out _

_ He left us quite downhearted. _

_ And never since the founders four _

_ Were whittled down to three _

_ Have the Houses been united _

_ As they once were meant to be. _

_ And now the Sorting Hat is here _

_ And you all know the score: _

_ I sort you into Houses _

_ Because that is what I’m for, _

_ But this year I’ll go further, _

_ Listen closely to my song: _

_ Though condemned I am to split you _

_ Still I worry that it’s wrong, _

_ Though I must fulfill my duty _

_ And must quarter every year _

_ Still I wonder whether sorting _

_ May not bring the end I fear. _

_ Oh, know the perils, read the signs, _

_ The warning history shows, _

_ For our Hogwarts is in danger _

_ From external, deadly foes _

_ And we must unite inside her _

_ Or we’ll crumble from within. _

_ I have told you, I have warned you… _

_ Let the Sorting now begin. _

“Does the hat usually give out warnings?” asked Padma, as applause broke out punctuated by mutterings and whispers.

“It never has before,” said Beatrice.

“How long does it spend writing its song, d’you think?” said Sinclair. “All year?”

“Now you’ve got me wondering the same thing,” grumbled Faye.

Professor McGonagall silenced the students with a scorching gaze and began to read from her long piece of parchment.

“Abercrombie, Euan!”

The most terrified-looking boy of the bunch stumbled forward and put the hat on his head. Only his very prominent ears prevented it from falling right down to his shoulders. The hat considered for a moment, then the rip near the brim opened again and shouted, “ _ GRYFFINDOR _ !”

Slowly the long line of first years thinned. Sinclair’s stomach rumbled loudly during every pause.

Eventually, Professor McGonagall called out, “O’Brien, Aurora!” and a tiny girl with ribbons in her hair hurried forward. A moment passed —

“RAVENCLAW!”

Ezra whistled and the others cheered as his sister took her place, blushing, at the end of the table with the other first years. Both of Ezra’s parents had been in Ravenclaw, and now all three of their children, Ezra, Aurora, and Isabelle, a third year, were too.

After “Zeller, Rose!” was sorted into Hufflepuff, Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and stool and marched them away as Professor Dumbledore rose to his feet.

“To our newcomers,” said Dumbledore in a ringing voice, his arms stretched wide and a beaming smile on his lips, “welcome! To our old hands — welcome back! There is a time for speech making, but this is not it. Tuck in!”

There was an appreciative laugh and an outbreak of applause as Dumbledore sat down neatly and threw his long beard over his shoulder so as to keep it out of the way of his plate — for food had appeared out of nowhere, so that the five long tables were groaning under joints and pies and dishes of vegetables, bread, sauces, and flagons of pumpkin juice.

Food prevented them from talking much, so the maximum conversation the Ravenclaws had for much of dinner was a series of appreciative grunts as they dug into the delicious feast. When all the students had finished eating and the noise level in the hall was starting to creep upward again, Dumbledore got to his feet once more. Talking ceased immediately as all turned to face the headmaster. Sinclair yawned.

“Well, now that we are all digesting another magnificent feast, I beg a few moments of your attention for the usual start-of-term notices,” said Dumbledore. “First years ought to know that the forest in the grounds is out of bounds to students — and a few of our older students ought to know by now too.”

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me, for what he tells me is the four hundred and sixty-second time, to remind you all that magic is not permitted in corridors between classes, nor are a number of other things, all of which can be checked on the extensive list now fastened to Mr. Filch’s office door.”

“We have had two changes in staffing this year. We are very pleased to welcome back Professor Grubbly-Plank, who will be taking Care of Magical Creatures lessons; we are also delighted to introduce Professor Umbridge, our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”

There was a round of polite but fairly unenthusiastic applause. The fifth years had gone through four professors so far for her subject, some good and some bad, and found it hard to work up excitement for another.

Dumbledore continued, “Tryouts for the House Quidditch teams will take place on the —”

He broke off, looking inquiringly at Professor Umbridge. As she was not much taller standing than sitting, there was a moment when nobody understood why Dumbledore had stopped talking, but then Professor Umbridge said, “ _ Hem, hem, _ ” and it became clear that she had got to her feet and was intending to make a speech.

Dumbledore only looked taken aback for a moment, then he sat back down smartly and looked alertly at Professor Umbridge as though he desired nothing better than to listen to her talk. Other members of staff were not as adept at hiding their surprise. Professor Sprout’s eyebrows had disappeared into her flyaway hair, and Professor McGonagall’s mouth was as thin as Sinclair had ever seen it. No new teacher had ever interrupted Dumbledore before. Many of the students were smirking; this woman obviously did not know how things were done at Hogwarts.

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Professor Umbridge simpered, “for those kind words of welcome.”

Her voice was high-pitched, breathy, and a little girlish; Sinclair’s lip curled in disgust. Professor Umbridge gave another little throat clearing cough (“ _ Hem, hem _ ”) and continued: “Well, it is lovely to be back at Hogwarts, I must say!” She smiled, revealing very pointed teeth. “And to see such happy little faces looking back at me!”

None of the faces around Sinlair looked very happy. On the contrary, they looked rather taken aback at being addressed as if they were five years old.

“I am very much looking forward to getting to know you all, and I’m sure we’ll be very good friends!”

Students exchanged looks at this; some of them were barely concealing grins.

“I’ll be her friend as long as I don’t have to borrow that cardigan,” Parvati whispered to Lavender at the Gryffindor table, and both of them lapsed into silent giggles.

Professor Umbridge cleared her throat again (“ _ Hem, hem _ ”), but when she continued, some of the breathiness had vanished from her voice. She sounded much more businesslike and now her words had a dull learned-by-heart sound to them.

“The Ministry of Magic has always considered the education of young witches and wizards to be of vital importance. The rare gifts with which you were born may come to nothing if not nurtured and honed by careful instruction. The ancient skills unique to the Wizarding community must be passed down through the generations lest we lose them forever. The treasure trove of magical knowledge amassed by our ancestors must be guarded, replenished, and polished by those who have been called to the noble profession of teaching.”

Professor Umbridge paused here and made a little bow to her fellow staff members, none of whom bowed back. Professor McGonagall’s dark eyebrows had contracted so that she looked positively hawklike, and Sinclair distinctly saw her exchange a significant glance with Professor Sprout as Umbridge gave another little “ _ Hem, hem _ ” and went on with her speech.

“Every headmaster and headmistress of Hogwarts has brought something new to the weighty task of governing this historic school, and that is as it should be, for without progress there will be stagnation and decay. There again, progress for progress’s sake must be discouraged, for our tried and tested traditions often require no tinkering. A balance, then, between old and new, between permanence and change, between tradition and innovation…”

Sinclair happily ignored her, turning her attention instead to folding her napkin into a swan. The quiet that always filled the Hall when Dumbledore was speaking was breaking up as students put their heads together, whispering and giggling.

Professor Umbridge did not seem to notice the restlessness of her audience. Sinclair had the impression that a full-scale riot could have broken out under her nose and she would have plowed on with her speech. The teachers, however, were still listening very attentively, though few, if any, were smiling.

“… because some changes will be for the better, while others will come, in the fullness of time, to be recognized as errors of judgment. Meanwhile, some old habits will be retained, and rightly so, whereas others, outmoded and outworn, must be abandoned. Let us move forward, then, into a new era of openness, effectiveness, and accountability, intent on preserving what ought to be preserved, perfecting what needs to be perfected, and pruning wherever we find practices that ought to be prohibited.”

She sat down. Dumbledore clapped. The staff followed his lead, though several of them brought their hands together only once or twice before stopping. A few students joined in, but most had been taken unawares by the end of the speech, not having listened to more than a few words of it, and before they could start applauding properly, Dumbledore had stood up again.

“Thank you very much, Professor Umbridge, that was most illuminating,” he said, bowing to her. “Now — as I was saying, Quidditch tryouts will be held…”

“She might be worse than Lockhart,” groaned Beatrice.

“Come on, she can’t be that bad?” said Maggie with a tone of forced encouragement.

“I admire your optimism,” said Sinclair. “But I can’t say that I share it.”


	3. The Letter from Lucius Malfoy

The first few days of school passed in a flurry of readjustment, as they always did. Sinclair was many things, but one of them was punctual, a trait not all of her dormmates shared. She found herself having to wake up Beatrice and Maggie on more than one occasion — the former almost every day — so that they might make it to breakfast in time. Their very first class was Transfiguration with the Gryffindors, and Professor McGonagall spent a full fifteen minutes lecturing them on the importance of their OWLs.

“You cannot pass an OWL,” said Professor McGonagall grimly, “without serious application, practice, and study. I see no reason why everybody in this class should not achieve an OWL in Transfiguration as long as they put in the work.”

Neville Longbottom made a sad little disbelieving noise.

“Yes, you too, Longbottom,” said Professor McGonagall. “There’s nothing wrong with your work except lack of confidence. So… today we are starting Vanishing Spells. These are easier than Conjuring Spells, which you would not usually attempt until NEWT level, but they are still among the most difficult magic you will be tested on in your OWL.”

She was quite right; Sinclair found the Vanishing Spell horribly difficult. By the end of class, she and only a handful of others had managed it, and Professor McGonagall told them all to practice.

After Ancient Runes, Sinclair and the other Ravenclaws had Potions, and Professor Snape was as nasty as usual.

“Settle down,” said Snape coldly, shutting the door behind him.

There was no real need for the call to order; the moment the class had heard the door close, quiet had fallen and all fidgeting stopped. Snape’s mere presence was usually enough to ensure a class’s silence.

“Before we begin today’s lesson,” said Snape, sweeping over to his desk and staring around at them all, “I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an ‘Acceptable’ in your OWL, or suffer my… displeasure.”

“If we drop Potions, what exactly can he do?” muttered Sinclair to Faye, who snorted.

“After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me,” Snape went on. “I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye.”

There was no small amount of satisfaction in his eyes as he said this.

“But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell,” said Snape softly, “so whether you are intending to attempt NEWT or not, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high-pass level I have come to expect from my OWL students.”

“He’s gonna kill me,” whispered Ezra. Everyone knew he was rubbish at Potions; he didn’t care enough to follow the recipe and more often than not just threw random ingredients into his cauldron. Anthony edged a little further away from him so as not to be caught in any explosion that might occur.

“Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: If you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing. The ingredients and method —” Snape flicked his wand “— are on the blackboard —” they appeared there “— you will find everything you need —” he flicked his wand again “— in the store cupboard —” the door of the said cupboard sprang open “— you have an hour and a half… Start.”

Just as he had no doubt intended, Professor Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, fiddly potion. The ingredients had to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; the mixture had to be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in counterclockwise directions; the heat of the flames on which it was simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes before the final ingredient was added.

“A light silver vapor should now be rising from your potion,” called Snape, with ten minutes left to go.

“Shit,” moaned Ezra. His potion was neon green and seemed to be in danger of bubbling over; red sparks were emitted at intervals. “Shit shit shit. Sinclair, what do I do?”

“I don’t know,” said Sinclair, even though her own potion was emitting a shimmering silver vapor. “Add stuff until it either blows up or is fixed.”

“But here comes Snape!” said Ezra frantically.

“Add powdered porcupine quills until the potion turns blue,” hissed Sinclair out of the corner of her mouth. “Then add syrup of hellebore until the sparks stop and don’t stop stirring.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know if I just fixed it for you or made it worse,” said Sinclair. Ezra looked as if he were on death row, but he did as he was told, and by the time Snape swept over, his potion was only slightly the wrong shade of blue and emitting puffs of smoke instead of vapor.

“Barely, O’Brien,” hissed Snape. Ezra was drenched with sweat but he looked relieved. “Passable, Fontaine. Moon, atrocious.”

Bea scowled. Snape prowled away.

“Ha,” said Ezra under his breath. Bea stuck out her tongue at him.

“You only passed because Sinclair helped you,” she fired back.

“My help won’t hold,” said Sinclair, edging away from Ezra’s potion, which was bubbling angrily again. “Fill a flask and vanish the rest quickly. I’m anxious enough without being drenched in a failed potion.”

Ezra hmphed but obeyed. They corked their vials of potion and brought them up to Snape desk while he stared down his hooked nose at them. Then they scurried from the dungeons and headed to lunch.

The rest of the day passed normally, with the Ravenclaws splitting off to go to their electives, today Divination, Arithmancy, and then Care of Magical Creatures, of which Sinclair took the latter two. Tuesday she had more Arithmancy, and more Care of Magical Creatures, and then a free period while Beatrice went off to Muggle Studies. After lunch they had Astronomy, which Sinclair loved. During the daytime classes they learned more about the planets and moons and stars themselves. She rounded off the day with her last elective, Ancient Runes, and then History of Magic with the Slytherins.

Sinclair would never admit it, but she  _ loved  _ History of Magic. She was less fond of Professor Binns, but that didn’t matter when there were wars and creations and governments for her to learn about. She played it cool in class, and mostly doodled instead of taking notes, but she soaked up everything she learned.

Wednesday started alright, but it soon devolved into a terrible day. After a free period, the Ravenclaws had Charms with the Gryffindors, to be followed by Transfiguration together as well, and tiny Professor Flitwick began class with a lecture just like Professor McGonagall had.

“What you must remember,” said Professor Flitwick squeakily, perched as ever on a pile of books so that he could see over the top of his desk, “is that these examinations may influence your futures for many years to come! If you have not already given serious thought to your careers, now is the time to do so. And in the meantime, I’m afraid, we shall be working harder than ever to ensure that you all do yourselves justice!”

They then spent more than an hour reviewing Summoning Charms, which according to Professor Flitwick were bound to come up in their OWL, and he rounded off the lesson by setting them their largest amount of Charms homework ever.

“I only just finished a foot on moonstones for Snape,” complained Faye. “And he’s bound to give us more today!”

“Don’ forget the foot an’ a half on giant wars for Binns,” said Maggie.

Indeed, Professor Snape did set them even more homework, and they were not looking forward to meeting Professor Umbridge when they trudged up from the dungeons an hour later.

When they entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom they found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teacher’s desk, wearing a hideous pink cardigan and a black velvet bow on top of her head. Sinclair was forcibly reminded of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.

The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew yet how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be.

“Well, good afternoon!” she said when finally the whole class had sat down.

A few people mumbled “Good afternoon,” in reply.

“Tut, tut,” said Professor Umbridge. “ _ That _ won’t do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply ‘Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.’ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!”

“Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,” they chanted back at her.

“There, now,” said Professor Umbridge sweetly. “That wasn’t too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.”

Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order “ _ wands away _ ” had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Sinclair stuck her wand through the bun in her hair and pulled out a quill, ink, and parchment. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:

**Defense Against the Dark Arts**

**A Return to Basic Principles.**

“Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn’t it?” stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. “The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year.”

“I hate her already,” whispered Ezra.

“You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.”

She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:

**Course aims:**

  * **Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.**


  * Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.


  * Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.



For a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge’s three course aims she said, “Has everybody got a copy of  _ Defensive Magical Theory _ by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.

“I think we’ll try that again,” said Professor Umbridge. “When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply ‘Yes, Professor Umbridge,’ or ‘No, Professor Umbridge.’ So, has everyone got a copy of  _ Defensive Magical Theory _ by Wilbert Slinkhard?”

“Yes, Professor Umbridge,” rang through the room.

“Good,” said Professor Umbridge. “I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, ‘Basics for Beginners.’ There will be no need to talk.”

Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher’s desk, observing them all with those pouchy toad’s eyes. Sinclair opened her copy of  _ Defensive Magical Theory _ to page five and began to read. It was even duller than she expected.

“There’s nothing in here about  _ using  _ magic,” whispered Anthony.

“Isn’t there a practical portion of our exams?” whispered back Padma.

After a few minutes, Sinclair was so bored she thought she might fall asleep if she had to read another page, so she did. She rested her head comfortably on her arms and shut her eyes to take a nap. It was certainly more worthwhile than reading this rubbish.

She was woken by a loud tapping, and looked up bleary-eyed to see Professor Umbridge standing in front of her, tapping her short wand on her desk.

“Ms. Fontaine,” she said in a furious whisper. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Studying the course aims, Professor,” replied Sinclair, punctuating her sentence with a yawn.

“I encourage you to stay awake in my class, or else you will find yourself in detention!” continued Umbridge in her angry whisper.

Sinclair rolled her eyes as Umbridge returned to the front of the room. To keep herself occupied, she began doodling on her textbook like she always did, adding notes in the margins about how much she hated it and how much Professor Umbridge sucked. She had only been doing this for a few minutes when Professor Umbridge returned, her toad-like face more angry than before.

“Ms. Fontaine,” she said again, in her hushed voice. “Ten points from Ravenclaw, and I suggest you stop defacing that book before I take away more.”

“But I’m almost done with the chapter,” protested Sinclair. “Besides, it’s mine, isn’t it?”

“I suggest you read, and  _ only  _ read, the chapter I assigned until the end of class,” said Umbridge. Her voice rose a little and more of the class stared. “Or I will put you in detention!” She looked around at the rest of the class, smiled and gave another throat clearing cough, and said, voice back to a whisper, “Do you understand?”

“Let’s find out,” answered Sinclair. Professor Umbridge glared at her but returned to the front of the room, and Sinclair managed to make it through the class without being threatened again, but she was sufficiently annoyed by the time they headed out to the greenhouses for Herbology.

“That old hag,” she said.

“Don’ go getting yourself into trouble,” pleaded Maggie. “She’s a nasty one, an’ there’s no telling what she’d do.”

Having already had an irritating day, Sinclair was in no mood to deal with her enemies, and was less than thrilled to find their tables were adjacent.

“Fontaine,” said Draco loftily.

“Malfoy,” said Sinclair.

“Is money tight these days, Fontaine?” said Pansy, faking sympathy. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Did you steal your clothes?”

Pansy was well aware that Sinclair’s family were a bunch of thieves, but they certainly weren’t poor.

“Strange, I almost didn’t recognize you either,” said Sinclair nastily. “Could have sworn I saw a cow. Oh wait.”

Pansy opened her mouth to retort, but Professor Sprout walked in and clapped her hands for attention. To nobody’s surprise, she started their lesson by lecturing them about the importance of OWLs.

Once they had been set to work, Drao seemed on a mission to purposely annoy Sinclair.

“Whoops,” he said softly, knocking over her back of dragon dung, Professor Sprout’s preferred brand of fertilizer.

“I hate you,” said Sinclair under her breath. When Professor Sprout’s back was turned, she lobbed a little of it over her shoulder so that it splattered on the back of Draco’s blond hair.

“Whoops,” she said innocently when he whirled around.

They continued to snipe at each other for the rest of the lesson, with Sinclair finally losing it when Draco said, “Spend your summer crying over Diggory?”

Sinclair broke the pot she was using. Repairing it with a quick wave of her wand, she took a moment to compose herself before retorting.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” snapped Sinclair.

“What?” said Draco.

“That my blood is just as pure as yours.”

“An utter waste,” hissed Draco. “At least I’m not a filthy blood traitor who associates with halfbreeds and mud —”

“Shut up,” snarled Sinclair “You —”

The bell rang, the sound of Professor Sprout assigning them yet another essay drowning out the string of filthy obscenities that came out of Sinclair’s mouth. She was quite glad the language didn’t reach Maggie’s ears as they marched back to the castle.

“That does it,” she said. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

Sinclair split from her friends, yanking off her tie and letting her hair down so no one who didn’t know her would know she wasn’t a Slytherin. She spent her time between class and dinner in the library, and headed down to the dungeons fifteen minutes after dinner began, when it wouldn’t look odd to show up late but when most people would already be eating.

Including Draco Malfoy.

Sinclair hurried down the long stairs that spiralled into the dungeons, reaching the stretch of bare stone that she knew concealed the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

“Merlin,” she said, and the short stone passageway revealed itself.

The Slytherin common room was a long, low underground room with rough stone walls and ceiling, from which round, greenish lamps were hung on chains. In fact, the whole room had a greenish tinge, due to the common room extending part way under the lake. A fire crackled under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead. There were lots of low backed black and dark green button-tufted, leather sofas, skulls, and dark wood cupboards.

Sinclair headed straight across the room and through one of the archways on the other side that led to the Slytherin dorms. She reached the one that had Draco’s name on it — he shared with Theodore Nott and Blaise Zabini — and listened for a moment to make sure it was empty. Once she was sure it was, she slipped inside, careful not to open the door wide enough that it would creak.

Draco’s bed was nearest to the bathroom, and she went for the desk opposite it, strewn with parchment between neat stacks of books.

_ What to steal, what to steal, what to steal… _

Sinclair had planned on taking his Transfiguration homework, but then her eyes landed on a letter stamped with a green wax seal. It stood in the shadow of two books and had already been opened, but if Draco was foolish enough to leave it out she might as well take a look.

She picked up the letter, admiring the penmanship on the address and identifying the handwriting as Lucius Malfoy’s. That would be good to have for later. Not wanting to be caught but also not wanting to take something and realize it wasn’t worth anything, Sinclair quickly lifted the wax seal and pulled out the letter inside.

_ Dear Draco _ , it read. The first paragraph was mundane, about his mother and how they missed him and mushy stuff like that. But then —

_ The Dark Lord found it prudent to discuss you in our last meeting _ .

Sinclair couldn’t believe her eyes. She was hoping for some juicy family gossip, not  _ this _ .

_ Though he currently has other arrangements, there may come a time when the Dark Lord chooses to reside at Malfoy Manor _ .

Now, that could be useful. Sinclair had had a hard enough time believing that You-Know-Who had even returned, but now… she should go to Dumbledore, or the Ministry, or someone, right? What she should do was obvious. She should —

Her eyes landed on the end of the letter.

_ When you are old enough, of course, the Dark Lord expects you to join his ranks. Your mother and I fear that time may come sooner than we thought. Tell no one of this, Draco. _

_ Your father, _

_ Lucius Malfoy _

Sinclair sank onto the end of Draco’s bed, still clutching the letter in her hand. The first thought she had was that Lucius Malfoy was a damn fool to put  _ that  _ in a letter. The second, far more surprising, was a profound sadness. She may hate Draco, but that didn’t mean she wanted him to become a… a Death Eater. And it didn’t sound as if he had much of a choice, which only made her feel worse. She hated the feeling of being trapped.

_ I never thought I’d feel sorry for my enemy _ , she thought. All — well, most — thoughts of revenge were gone from her mind.

_ What was she going to do? _


	4. The Astronomy Tower

Draco Malfoy was starting to freak out.

He had just returned to his dorm after dinner, laughing and joking around with Blaise and Theodore, when he’d gone to his desk to grab his Herbology book. And that was when he noticed the letter was missing.

_ No no no no no — _

Draco’s smile dropped as he began rifling through papers, his neat desk thrown into disarray as he searched for the letter. He never should’ve left it out on his desk. But it was just lost, wasn’t it? It had to be here. It had to be —

“You okay, Draco?” asked Blaise, his voice cutting through Draco’s thoughts.

“Fine,” snapped Draco, although nothing could be further from the truth. “Have either of you seen a letter? Addressed to me, from my father? I seem to have misplaced it.”

Theodore shrugged.

“No idea,” he said, gesturing to his total wreck of a desk. “It’s got to be here somewhere.”

“I haven’t seen it,” said Blaise. “I’m sure you’ll find it. Was it important?”

“Not very,” said Draco. “But I hadn’t written a reply yet, and I didn’t want to forget anything.”

It was strange how easily lying came to him. Draco stopped his search, heart still pounding. He had just misplaced the letter. That’s all, right?

Draco had to find that letter.

~~~

Sinclair hid the letter.

She shoved it in her bag and went to dinner, pulling her hair back into a ponytail and making sure no one saw her leave the Slytherin common room. She was fidgety all throughout dinner, but that wasn’t any different than normal so Maggie and Ezra and the others didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. When dinner was over, she taped the letter on the underside of one of the drawers in her desk. Anyone who came looking — though if she was as good as she thought, no one would — would be hard pressed to find it.

“Your aura is off,” declared Faye the next day at breakfast.

“Is it?” said Sinclair, far too anxiously. Her knee pumped up and down and she thought back to the letter hidden in her desk, which had prevented her from getting much sleep last night.

“I don’t know, you tell me,” said Faye with a shrug. “I was just practicing my mystic voice. How was it?”

“You’re getting better and better,” said Sinclair. “Ah, hello boys.”

“Morning,” said Ezra, with an enormous yawn. In addition to being clumsy, he was also not a morning person. He rubbed his eyes, knocking his glasses off his nose. They were only saved from tumbling into his porridge by Teddy’s sharp reflexes; he caught them and handed them back to Ezra.

“Good morning ladies,” said Teddy.

“Mornin’,” said Maggie.

“I love having a free period before Muggle Studies,” said Beatrice.

“I love having  _ two _ free periods this morning,” replied Sinclair.

“Hopefully you’ll use that time to do something productive,” said Anthony sternly.

“Of course,” said Sinclair, munching on a piece of toast. “I’m going back to bed.”

Teddy laughed. Eventually Ezra, Padma, Faye, Maggie, and Teddy headed off to Divination, and the others went back to the Ravenclaw common room. Sinclair made good on her claim that she was going back to bed, but found it hard to nap when she had a decision to make.

Sinclair didn’t know why it was so hard for her to decide what to do about Draco’s letter. She positively loathed him, after all, but… she knew what You-Know-Who could do. Her own family had been torn apart by him and his followers.

She arrived at History of Magic and slumped down in her desk, dropping her bag on the floor. Chin in hand, she gazed sullenly forward, until an arrogant blond boy sat down at the desk in front of her.

Sinclair could tell Draco had discovered his letter was missing. She had always been rather good at reading people. She could see it in the tenseness of his shoulders, the way he tapped his quill against his desk, how he seemed rather quiet compared to his usual behavior, where he’d throw jabs to those nearest with ease. Somewhere, deep in the last dregs of her heart, she felt the slightest twinge of pity.

She huffed. Pity? For Draco Malfoy?

Sinclair had to do something about Draco and his damned letter. If she put it back, he’d never know, but she’d feel guilty for not stopping him. If she told a teacher, he’d be labelled as a villain, and she didn’t think he was. Arrogant, sure. Whiny, obviously. The most obnoxious person she’d ever met, totally. But she didn’t think he was evil, or at least not yet.

So Sinclair devised a plan.

Step one: duplicate the letter.

Sinclair kept the original, and stuffed the duplicate letter into hiding as well, keeping the envelope with Lucius Malfoy’s handwriting.

Step two: arrange the trap.

Sinclair painstakingly wrote a letter in Lucius’s hand, arranging for Draco to meet her in the Astronomy Tower at nine. She would’ve done later, but the first Astronomy class started at eleven and curfew was ten. She tried several different headings, before crumpling up a piece of parchment reading  _ Dear Draco _ and deciding she was overthinking it.

_ Draco, _

_ If you wish to see the letter that belongs in this envelope again, you will be in the Astronomy Tower at nine o’clock tonight. Come alone if you wish for no one to discover your secret. Be prepared to hear my terms. _

_ — The Thief _

Sinclair stuffed the new letter into the old envelope, leaving the wax seal noticeably unsealed. She snuck into the Slytherin common room while Draco was out on the grounds playing Quidditch, and put the letter back exactly where she had found it, tucked in the shadow of two books. She could tell that Draco had rifled through his desk looking for it.

She hurried back out of the dungeons and into the library to blend in before dinner, stopping short when she nearly ran smack into her cousin.

“Ah, Theo, it’s you,” said Sinclair. Theodore Bellegarde, her cousin on her mother’s side, was a hardworking Hufflepuff in her year with insufferably upright morals.

“Hello Sinclair,” said Theo. “How are your classes going?”

“Fine,” said Sinclair evasively. “You?”

“All good, so far,” said Theo. “But it is OWL year. That Professor Umbridge is certainly something.”

“Many words come to mind,” agreed Sinclair.

“I mean, usually I support the Ministry, but this time I think they may have made a mistake,” said Theo gravely. Criticizing the Ministry was a big deal for Theo. His father, Louis Bellegarde, was the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation, and like his father, Theo rigidly supported the Ministry.

“Yeah, she’s the worst,” said Sinclair. “Well, see you around, Theo.”

“Wait!”

Sinclair turned back around to face Theo, whose arms were crossed.

“You wouldn’t be up to something, would you?” he said sternly.

“Not at the moment, no,” said Sinclair innocently. Then she hurried away before he could question her further.

Sinclair spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, churning out a Potions essay and mindlessly translating her Ancient Runes homework. The minutes ticked by slowly, even more so when dinner was over. She wanted to be in the Astronomy Tower well in advance of Draco, so at eight forty-five she slipped out of the Ravenclaw Common Room and hurried through the dark castle, the duplicate letter in her pocket.

She reached the dark, empty Astronomy Tower and tucked herself seamlessly into the shadows, one hand clutching her wand and the other holding the letter as she waited for Draco to arrive.

~~~

“I’m going to shower before dinner,” said Draco, splattered with mud from Quidditch practice.

“Try not to track mud all over the dorm,” replied Blaise, turning a page in his book idly.

Draco entered his dorm, tired and sweaty. He was nearly at the door of the bathroom when he stopped, pivoted, and looked at once at his desk. He could have sworn —

The letter.

It was back.

At once Draco strode over to it, seizing the envelope with its green wax seal already lifted, yanking out the letter inside that was written in his father’s hand.

_ Draco, _

_ If you wish to see the letter that belongs in this envelope again, you will be in the Astronomy Tower at nine o’clock tonight. Come alone if you wish for no one to discover your secret. Be prepared to hear my terms. _

_ — The Thief _

Draco swore. This was bad. His family’s honor depended on getting that letter back. But who —

“Fontaine,” sneered Draco, crumpling the letter in his fist. “I. Will. Make. Her. Pay.”

~~~

At precisely nine o’clock, Sinclair heard footsteps coming up the tower. She waited, until Draco approached with his wand out, his face illuminated by the light of an almost full moon.

“Malfoy,” she greeted, standing up from where she had been leaning against the wall.

“Fontaine,” he snapped. “Give me back my letter.”

“So soon?” she replied. “You haven’t heard my terms.”

Draco clenched his jaw, his wand still pointed at her face.

“First, I want money,” said Sinclair. “Fifty Galleons.”

“Not a chance!” scoffed Draco. Sinclair raised an eyebrow.

“Second, I want assurance that you will stop picking on my friends,” said Sinclair.

“Is that all?” sneered Draco.

“No,” said Sinclair. “Lastly, I want —” Her voice hitched. “— I want to help you.”

“What?” said Draco, half incredulous, half angry.

“I may loathe you, but I don’t want you to become a Death Eater,” said Sinclair. She could have sworn Draco flinched.

“Why should you care?” snapped Draco.

“You-Know-Who tore my family apart!” fired Sinclair right back. “Those are my terms. Money, honor, and, for lack of a better word, therapy.”

“What if I say no?” said Draco. For a moment Sinclair thought he was considering it.

“I take this letter to Dumbledore,” said Sinclair. “If you try to curse me or take it by force, I tell the whole school. I’ll give you until noon tomorrow to decide.”

“You bitch,” seethed Draco. “Give me that letter!”

He lunged and she took off, practically flying down the stairs.

“Fontaine!” roared Draco, thundering down the stairs behind her.

Sinclair was running down the stairs as fast as she could, her heart pounding wildly. She just needed to get Draco off her tail —

_ I need a place to hide from Draco, I need a place to hide from Draco, I need a place to hide — _

A door appeared out of nowhere on her left and Sinclair opened it, yanking it shut behind her. Her heart raced and she felt in her pocket to make sure she still had the letter. She heard Draco’s footsteps pound past the room, not even slowing as he passed her hiding place, and only when they had faded away into silence did she open the door.

The ball was in Draco’s court now. The next move was his. Either he agreed to her terms, or she would go to the headmaster.

Sinclair wasn’t sure which outcome she wanted.


	5. Detention

Sinclair was busy reading the  _ Daily Prophet _ the next morning when a letter arrived for her.

She didn’t often get letters that weren’t from her family. Her brother Sébastien was working abroad, but it was much too soon in the term to hear from him. Her parents wrote once a week, and her grandmother once a fortnight. The owl that delivered the letter was unfamiliar, but the scrawl of her last name on the front of the envelope was unmistakable.

Sinclair could see Draco from where she was seated at the Ravenclaw table. He looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink. She chuckled. For all he’d done, he deserved a little fear.

She turned the letter over in her hands. It was unsealed, and had obviously been written hastily. Possibly it had been written in the Owlery, due to the slightly wrinkled parchment.

_ Fontaine — _

_ Fifth period. Today. Second floor. Bring the letter. _

Sinclair grinned. She had leverage over him, and her well-meaning — well, well-meaning  _ enough _ — blackmail had worked. She felt oddly relieved that she wouldn’t have to expose him just yet. She put the letter back in the envelope and tucked it into the cover of one of her books.

“Right then, I’m off to Muggle Studies,” said Beatrice, snatching a last slice of toast.

“Wait up!” said Teddy, jumping to his feet. He and Anthony left with Beatrice.

“Do you want to work on our Ancient Runes translations today?” said Maggie brightly, eating her eggs on toast.

“Sure, sounds good,” replied Sinclair. She avoided glancing over at the Slytherin table as she left the Great Hall. Her free period passed quickly, as they often did when she was focused.

Sinclair left Maggie for Arithmancy during second hour, which she had with a number of her friends, including Bea, Faye, and Padma. Anthony also had it, as did Letitia and Blaise, but the two of them tended to sit with the other Slytherins. Draco was also in her class, and she could tell by his stiff posture that he was highly irritated and terrible at concealing his emotions.

After Arithmancy, she had Charms with the Hufflepuffs, which was her absolute favorite class. She loved everything about Charms, and Professor Flitwick was an excellent teacher. Then, after lunch and a just-as-irritating-as-usual Herbology class, it was time to meet Draco.

Sinclair searched the second floor, finding him in a dusty, unused classroom. As soon as she was inside, he pointed his wand at the door and the lock clicked shut.

“Give me my letter,” he growled.

“Not until you’ve actually fulfilled your part of the bargain,” said Sinclair. She hopped up onto one of the desks and swung her legs back and forth. “Did you bring the money?”

Clenching his jaw so hard Sinclair thought he might break it, Draco nodded, gesturing towards a black box on the desk beside him. It was quite heavy when Sinclair moved it. She opened the top, pulled out one of the Galleons inside, and inspected it, checking for leprechaun gold or other faults.

“And will you be nicer to my friends?” said Sinclair, dropping the Galleon back into the box.

“If our paths cross,” conceded Draco.

“And will you let me help you?” said Sinclair.

“‘Help me,’” scoffed Draco. “Like you really care.”

“I’ve told you, I do,” said Sinclair. “Well, not about  _ you _ , but about whether or not you become a Death Eater.”

Again, Draco flinched. Sinclair raised her eyebrows at him.

“If I agree, will you give me back my letter?” he said.

“Perhaps,” said Sinclair, popping the p. “But you actually have to let me help you first. Shall we meet, let’s say, three o’clock on Saturday in the library?”

“I have Quidditch practice,” said Draco, arms crossed and a muscle jumping in his jaw. Sinclair rolled her eyes.

“Fine, Sunday then,” she said. Draco didn’t respond. “I’ll take that as a yes. See you then!”

She hopped off the desk, grabbed her money, unlocked the door, and sauntered away, whistling cheerfully as she went to hide her frayed nerves. He had agreed. That was good, right?

~~~

Draco kept his end of the bargain, as much as it irked him to take orders from  _ Sinclair Fontaine _ . He came to the library at three o’clock on Sunday, edging around fellow students and past bookshelves. Surely even Fontaine wouldn’t be so foolish as to have them meet where someone might see them.

He was nearing the back of the library when he found her, seated in an armchair at the end of one of the bookshelves, half-concealed by the shelf. He stalked over to her, hands clenched, infuriated by how relaxed, how utterly pleased with herself she looked.

“Give me back my letter.”

She laughed in his face, narrowing her hazel eyes.

“You have a one track mind,” she said, gesturing for him to sit in the armchair across from her, which had been tucked as far back between the bookshelf and the wall as it would go, which wasn’t very far. At least she had made something of an effort not to be seen together.

“The library, really?” said Draco.

“You agreed,” said Sinclair with an infuriatingly casual shrug. “Besides, we’re in the section of the library devoted to gargoyle strikes and goblin rebellions. No one but me ever comes here. So, shall we get down to business?”

“Actually, I have a few ground rules of my own,” said Draco.

“Oh?” said Sinclair. “Do tell.”

“You can’t ask me about my father’s plans,” said Draco. “You can’t read any more of my letters. And we can’t talk about if my mother is involved.”

“Is that all?” said Sinclair, humor dancing in her eyes. “You know, I’m not going to obey any one of those. What else is there to talk about?”

“Agree or the deal’s off,” growled Draco.

“You forget that I still have the letter,” said Sinclair coolly. “Right, I think we’re done here for today. Let’s meet again, shall we say, first period on Thursday? Excellent. That’ll give you some time to decide what you’re going to tell me.”

She stood, swinging her bag over her shoulder, and made to leave. Draco made a mad grab for the bag, but she snatched it away, chuckling.

“You don’t think I would actually bring the letter, do you?” she said. “I knew you wouldn’t tell me shit on the first try. I suggest you come ready to talk on Thursday.”

Her curly blonde ponytail bounced as she flounced away, disappearing behind the nearest bookshelf, leaving Draco glaring after her, hands clenched into fists.

~~~

Sinclair was having a fine and dandy week until Wednesday. On Monday, she and Draco avoided each other in Ancient Runes, Arithmancy, and Care of Magical Creatures, which wasn’t hard. He was quite easy to ignore. On Tuesday, she was the only one paying attention to their History of Magic lecture. Her notes came out packed with doodles, which in actuality would help her when she studied later on. Wednesday came and things were going well: she finished her Transfiguration essay during the study hall, got out of Charms with no homework, and earned top marks for her concoction in Potions.

Then she had Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Professor Umbridge assigned them yet another chapter of  _ Defensive Magical Theory _ and most of the class set about reading as they were told. Sinclair, however, was never afraid to challenge the authority of someone she didn’t respect.

Sinclair raised her hand, her book sitting unopened, on her desk. Umbridge ignored her. Sinclair kept her hand raised for several minutes, and still she was ignored.

“Oy, Professor!” called Sinclair, calling the rest of the class’s attention to her.

“Do you have a question, Ms. Fontaine?” asked Professor Umbridge quietly through gritted teeth.

“Obviously,” replied Sinclair. “What do we do if Slinkhard is just too boring to read?”

“Too —”

“Too boring, yes,” said Sinclair. “Any advice?”

“Ten points from Ravenclaw,” hissed Professor Umbridge. “Do as you are told, Ms. Fontaine.”

“But you didn’t answer my question,” pressed Sinclair.

“You are to read chapter three of  _ Defensive Magical Theory _ as instructed,” said Umbridge, her words clipped.

“Yeah, I get that, but why? Who cares about theory?” said Sinclair. “I thought you were here to prepare us for our OWLs, not make sure we fail them.”

“Twenty points from Ravenclaw,” snapped Umbridge, barely suppressing her anger. “The Ministry believes that theory is enough for you to be sufficiently prepared.”

“The Ministry believes that, do they?” mocked Sinclair.

“Sinclair, stop,” whispered Maggie fearfully, but Sinclair was undeterred. She didn’t know what it was about Professor Umbridge that made her blood boil so much.

“Ms. Fontaine, you will hold your tongue,” said Professor Umbridge. “This is your last warning.”

“Is that why the Ministry denies what happened last year as well?” continued Sinclair. There was a sharp intake of breath from the class. “How, exactly, are we supposed to be prepared for the real world, much less our OWLs, if the Ministry is hell bent on lying to us and blocking our education?”

“Detention!” shrieked Umbridge. “Detention! You, Ms. Fontaine, must learn to hold your tongue. You have no right to challenge the Ministry’s authority! Your head has been filled with foolish lies —”

“So Cedric’s death is a lie, is that it?” said Sinclair quietly.

“Get out of my classroom.” Umbridge’s face had gone red with rage, and was nearing purple. “You… A week’s worth of detentions will do, Ms. Fontaine. Until you learn to respect my classroom, you will leave it.”

“Gladly,” snapped Sinclair. She shoved her textbook into her bag and slung it over her shoulder, marching out of the classroom to shocked silence from her classmates. She made sure to slam the door as hard as she could behind her.

She met back up with her friends an hour later for Herbology. Bea, Ezra, Faye, Anthony, and Padma all thought she was brave for standing up to Umbridge, but Teddy didn’t want her to get into trouble and Maggie hated any kind of confrontation.

“Thank Merlin Defense teachers only last a year,” grumbled Sinclair.

“What’s she teaching us to defend ourselves against, boredom?” said Ezra, and they all laughed.

“Hey, Sinclair!”

Her cousin Theo ran up to her, a stern frown on his face, one that made him look very much like his father.

“You can’t talk to Professor Umbridge like that,” he reprimanded. “She is here on Ministry authority —”

“Oh fuck off,” said Sinclair, scoffing and turning around to rejoin her friends as Professor Sprout led them into greenhouse three.

Herbology was less irritating than usual, largely because it seemed Draco was ready to keep up his end of the bargain. He was indifferently polite when Sinclair asked him to pass the tweezers, and didn’t even snap at her when he complied.

“Okay, his aura’s definitely off,” declared Faye.

“Yeah, why’s Malfoy being so nice?” said Bea.

“He’s not being nice, he’s just not being a fucking twat like he usually is,” said Sinclair. Maggie winced at the cursing. “Sorry Mags.”

“It’s like you’re dating him or something,” said Bea. Sinclair laughed and her bad mood broke.

“Alright, now you’re just being ridiculous,” she said. “To begin with, he’s not my type, but can you imagine?”

“I’d rather not,” said Teddy, shuddering.

~~~

Sinclair was expecting lines when she turned up outside of Professor Umbridge’s office at seven o’clock for her detention; she wasn’t expecting to do them with an illegal Blood Quill.

Sinclair knew illegal objects when she saw them. Her family did a roaring trade in many of them. She could spot a blood quill from a mile away. So she knew exactly what was going on when she saw the black quill waiting for her.

“Hmm,” she said, examining it. “Interesting.”

The door to Professor Umbridge’s office opened, and in came Harry Potter. He seemed surprised to see her there, and they greeted each other with a nod.

“Hello Harry,” said Sinclair conversationally. “What’re you in for?”

“There will be no need to talk,” said Professor Umbridge crisply. “Mr. Potter, you know what to do. Ms. Fontaine, you are to write ‘I must hold my tongue’.”

“How many times?” asked Sinclair in a bored voice.

“However long it takes for the message to  _ sink in _ ,” said Professor Umbridge, with only the barest hint of sweetness left in her voice.

Sinclair gripped the Blood Quill determinedly, thinking back to one of her grandmother’s lessons on weakness. There was a sharp prick on the back of her hand and she knew what the cut said.

_ Don’t let it hurt _ .

She wrote  _ I must hold my tongue _ again.

_ The pain, my dear, is in your head _ .

Sinclair gritted her teeth and wrote the sentence again, the bloody ink shining on the page.

_ See? It’s not so bad _ .

She would make Umbridge pay even after she had left Hogwarts.

~~~

Umbridge kept Sinclair in her office so long that Sinclair had to stay up past midnight if she was to finish her homework. It didn’t help that she kept getting distracted by the littlest of things. She was quite sure that she had spelled ‘properties’ twenty different times in her essay about the properties of moonstone in potion-making, but at least it was finished.

Sinclair met Draco in the same spot in the library after breakfast on Thursday. She knew she looked a mess, with her hair barely contained in a bun, dark circles under her eyes, and her tie missing from her uniform, but she didn’t care. Nor did she care about the expression her face adopted when she was tired, which could best be described as a death glare.

“Rough night?” said Draco, raising one blond eyebrow.

“Oh, shut up,” she snapped irritably, dropping into the seat opposite him. She didn’t even bother to sit upright, and instead drew her legs up onto the seat so that she was sitting curled in the armchair. “So, are you ready to talk, or are you going to waste more of my time?”

~~~

Sinclair was a mess. Draco could tell from the moment she appeared in the library for their meeting. Her curly blonde hair was escaping her bun and she looked as if she hadn’t slept a wink. It gave Draco a small bit of satisfaction; he’d had a few sleepless nights lately, and he had never come out of them looking like this.

“So, are you ready to talk, or are you going to waste more of my time?” said Sinclair in an annoyed voice, slouched in her chair. She yawned behind her hand. “If you don’t, our arrangement is pointless, and if our arrangement is pointless you won’t get your letter back, you know.”

“I could lie and say you wrote it yourself, you know,” said Draco with a sneer. It infuriated him that she held this constantly over his head.

Sinclair yawned again.

“You could,” she conceded, “but I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“And why is that?” snapped Draco.

“Because how would you explain that I obtained a sample of Lucius Malfoy’s handwriting to copy, hmm?” said Sinclair.

Fuck.

Draco hadn’t thought of that.

“First question: when was the meeting?” said Sinclair, taking his silence as a cue to continue. “We’re barely two weeks into term, but you clearly weren’t at home when it happened. My guess is there was a meeting on, shall we say, the first of September. Am I right?”

Draco nodded stiffly.

“Excellent. Well, not excellent, but at least we’re getting somewhere,” she continued, talking more to herself than to him. “Second question: how many Death Eaters do you know of who are attending these meetings?”

“I can’t say,” said Draco through clenched teeth.

“Can’t or won’t?” challenged Sinclair. “You’ve got to tell me something worthwhile, Malfoy.”

“Fine,” said Draco. He couldn’t believe he was even saying this. “I will tell you  _ some _ of what I know.”

“All,” corrected Sinclair.

“No,” said Draco. “Some.”

“For now,” said Sinclair. “Well, Malfoy? Start talking.”


End file.
